


Let Us Fly

by Amaya_the_fox



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Gen, Tributes, rip david bowie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 09:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5703187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaya_the_fox/pseuds/Amaya_the_fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the time comes, we all must fly...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Us Fly

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote anything very substantial, but this one is a gift to all who grieve

Let Us Fly

In a hospital, somewhere in the city that never sleeps, a young old man lay quietly. He wasn't sleeping, although one might have been forgiven for thinking so. After all, his eyes were closed and his breathing peaceful; but no, he was not sleeping. Not this close to the end. He knew it was coming, could feel it in his bones and in the tips of his fingers, and he didn't want to miss a second of the time he had left. 

"So, are you finally ready to take me up on my offer?" a smooth, cultured voice, not so different from his own, spoke up from where he knew the window of his hospital room stood cracked just the smallest bit to let in the fresh air - or as fresh as it got here in the middle of the city. He didn't mind the scents of petrol and cooking...the smells of life...he'd told the nurses it made him feel more alive, and the nurses would do anything for him.

"A little early aren't you?" he asked, cracking one eye open, then both, and raising an eyebrow at the figure leaning against the windowsill. "And why are you still sporting that ridiculous hairdo? I've had at least fifteen different looks since the Eighties."

"I felt a bit nostalgic," the fae - for that is what the visitor was - chuckled. "If you like I could change. You'll forgive me, though, if I decline from matching your current look."

"Quite forgiven," the sick man smiled, "it's hardly my favourite look either. Still, are you quite sure it's that time? I was hoping for another few days, just to see how the album goes over."

"Better sooner than later," the fae shook his head. "The Queen and I are looking forward to your company, and she would never forgive me if I let things get too far. It is time for you to come home, Brother. Mortality is all well and good, but it can't last forever."

"I suppose," the man shook his head, "and you're right, better sooner than later. I'll miss them though. All of them."

"When you're well again, I'll teach you to speak to them," the fae smiled, strolling over to the bed and holding out his hand in invitation. "Shall we?" 

There ought to have been a crystal in that hand, the man thought, but he didn't say anything except "Alright. He sat up and took the fae's hand, getting to his feet, the cold tile stinging his bare toes and reminding him that it was winter, he was just past his sixty-ninth birthday, and tile floors really required slippers. As he rose from the bed, a perfect copy of his body remained, blood pumping and lungs inflating and deflating to keep the hospital's machines happy for long enough for the two of them to make their exit.

"Are you ready to fly?" the fae asked, and there; there was the crystal he'd expected. 

He placed his hand over the crystal, and his fingers were no longer fingers but feathers, and his body felt light as it had not in many, many years.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

When the strident tones of the heart monitor's flatlining called the nurses into the room, there was much hustle and bustle, although this was not an unexpected event, and certainly they knew better than to try to wake the man whose struggle had gone on with quiet dignity for far longer than most had known. They had their instructions after all. The doctor solemnly pronounced the time of passing, the machines were silenced, and all was put to rights. If anyone had thought to look, they might have seen the silent flick of feathers as a pair of white barn owls took flight, winging their way toward the moon. 

It wasn't until half an hour or so later, when the family had been summoned to say their final goodbyes that someone thought to close the window. "Oh," said the young nurse, "isn't that odd. There's a feather here. It must have blown in."


End file.
